


Ne'er Come Down Again

by foppishaplomb



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:52:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8213026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foppishaplomb/pseuds/foppishaplomb
Summary: Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain, / For who goes up your winding stair /-can ne'er come down again.” (short widowtracer.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> warning for mild dub-con; tracer is into it, but never says so verbally.

Lena is used to being a ghost. She has her chronal accelerator, and that keeps her body stable and her feet on solid ground. She’s grateful to Winston beyond anything, but it doesn’t do much for a mind still lost in a slipstream. Even before the accident, she was a pilot, you know; head always in the clouds. She smiles her way through life in a slight fog she doesn’t have the words to explain, barely there, always one step removed from reality.

_Chronal disassociation_ had the right ring to it. A living ghost was hardly a life at all, but it had felt, for once, that her inside and outside were on the same page, and she never came down. Now she’s there and not there all at once. She spots the flick of a long dark ponytail around a corner and—with a teal-electric flash through space and time—she’s bound to follow.

The enemy allows herself to be cornered. Lena blinks, and tries not to let her smile falter. Lena isn’t quite there, and neither is Tracer, because they’re one and the same, but Tracer has a job to do and as long as her body’s solid when she wants to be and she’s in control when she doesn’t it’s all that matters. Even as her eyes land on Widowmaker and she feels more unanchored than ever, the important thing is that they’re here.

It’s not easy. Widowmaker is beautiful, if nothing else. She’s downright ethereal in the silvery moonlight, impossible and dreamlike and ever so graceful. She’s clear indigo skin not found in nature, yellow cat-eyes with the sharpness of a hunter, and, hell, those lips. She’s a vision from another world, even to Tracer, whose best friend is a gorilla from the moon.

“ _Bonsoir, ma chérie,_ ” says Widowmaker. Tracer’s never gone for the fancy stuff when a pint of lager would do, but she thinks Widowmaker’s voice might sound like red wine, sweet and astringent and full-bodied while you drown in it.

“Hallo, hallo,” says Tracer, cheeky smile still in place when the world spins too fast around her. Her pistols are up. Widow’s rifle is down. Tracer doesn’t understand. Maybe she doesn’t understand a lot of things about Widowmaker, but lord help her she tries. She gestures with her pistol. “Not looking for a fight, are you, love?”

“I have no need to look. Weapons create fights.” Now Widowmaker raises her rifle, and she’s got a straight shot on Tracer if she wants it, and Tracer doesn’t know why, but she stays exactly where she is.

“You do have have a right nice rifle there,” Tracer says amiably, the crack in her voice only audible if you’re listening for it. “Use it a bit too much for my taste.”

“I am the weapon.” There’s a moment where she’s staring at Tracer, eyes narrow, rifle up, and somehow Tracer knows it’s an unspoken option.

Tracer thought Widowmaker hasn’t known options since Amélie Lacroix was ground into dust, but she’s giving her one now. She can leave, or she can fight. Are those really the only choices?

Everyone remembers the spider and its parlor, but they don’t usually mention the choice of the fly.

_“Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,_  
_For who goes up your winding stair_  
_-can ne'er come down again.”_

Lena lowers her guns.

She has a split second to see Widowmaker’s smile, a twist of perfect lips into a deadly smirk, and then instead of her rifle her arm’s up and there’s the whoosh of her grappling hook slicing through air. It wraps around Tracer before she can blink, in either meaning, and she doesn’t know. The hook slices into her jacket and her skin, probably a nasty scratch that makes her cry out, and the slack goes tight and pulls Widowmaker and Tracer together, inexorably, and then Widowmaker is on top of Tracer and Tracer is pinned against the alley wall.

Her shoulder hurts, and her heart is pounding and her breath is fast, but she still doesn’t feel real, not quite, but she does _feel._ There’s warmth in her cheeks and her gut and the blood seeping into her jacket, and Widowmaker’s hands are so icy cold.

They say Widowmaker can’t feel any emotion, but Lena can see her panting too, can see the softest hint of a flush painting her blue skin wine-colored. Through the orange tint of Tracer’s goggles her yellow eyes almost glow and her pupils are blown wide with what Lena can’t read as anything but excitement. They are pressed together chest to chest, Widowmaker hunched over to keep Tracer in place, and it could just be a hiccup in her accelerator, but Lena swears she feels her heart beat.

Then Widowmaker shifts and the pressure of her breasts moves away from Lena’s chest. Lena barely registers her slight disappointment before Widowmaker is kissing her.

Lena can’t do much to react, not with her hands bound to her sides, but she doesn’t want to. She feels Widowmaker’s cold, plush lips and the insistence of Widowmaker’s tongue Lena’s mouth opens obediently, apparently of its own will. Widowmaker’s breath is surprisingly warm. Her every touch is cold, but from Lena’s own body heat she can feel it growing warmer.

Widowmaker’s hand is on her stomach, then her hip, pushing past the layers and the straps. Her mouth is on Lena’s neck and her fingers in Lena’s mouth to keep her from speaking beyond gasps and squeaks. The pleasure rolls off of Widowmaker in waves, but this isn’t a kill, unless you count _la petit mort._ Lena is helpless, and she _should_ mind—she can never stay still, she can never stop chattering, she’s a ghost who can never stay, but she’s in Widowmaker’s web, she’s trapped, and it doesn’t feel wrong. She’s frightened, but she doesn’t know if it’s of Widowmaker or her own thrill.

Snipers hunt from the highest towers. Spiders build their webs in corners and between the branches of trees. _For who goes up your winding stair, can ne'er come down again._

Lena is a pilot; she likes the sky. She was never grounded to begin with.

There are voices coming closer, too far away to recognize whose side. They echo down the alley walls and Widowmaker pulls back with a hiss. She glances over, her infrared headset going down to confirm the interruption, and pushes Tracer too hard into the wall to give her one more long, harsh kiss. It’s all teeth and force and Tracer tastes blood. Tracer tries to bite back, but it’s barely a nip, and in the blue light of her accelerator and eyes hidden by eight glowing red lights she sees Widowmaker smile. It is dangerous. It is intoxicating.

Widowmaker leans in and her breath is electric on Tracer’s ear. “ _À la prochaine_ ,” she purrs, and with Tracer still helpless, still paralyzed, the wire is recalled and Widowmaker disappears with it into the night. Tracer doesn’t try to follow her. “Cheers, then,” she sighs. She waves weakly. She wonders if Widowmaker looked back and saw.

Tracer is wounded, not to mention disoriented, so it’s a relief that it’s her team that was coming. With a few smiles and jokes she doesn’t need to explain much and she tries to pretend she doesn’t need an explanation herself. When she gets home, much later, she looks up Widowmaker’s parting words as best she can, phonetically. _Until we meet again._


End file.
